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This was first published on my blog on Suns.com:

Last night I watched the Miami play Chicago to get an idea of Shawn Marion’s new reality in the Heat’s lineup. It was a little sad to see a career player of the Phoenix Suns in a new uniform surrounded by new players.

He’s still the same dominant player on the both defense and offense, tipping the ball in his team’s favor with every tick of the game clock. But after watching four quarters, it became clear that Shawn is unequipped for victory without his Band of Brothers in Phoenix. Until Miami can find more talent, it’s Marion and Wade against the world.

On the other side of the country, Shaq inherits Marion’s old reality: sellout games, all-star teammates, and a city of Suns fanatics. I know this because everywhere I go, people are talking at the big trade. When my plane first touched down at Sky Harbor shortly after the trade news broke, I overheard 3 cell phone conversations about the Suns before I even got to the baggage claim.

You expect sports fans to run their mouths at the bars and at the water cooler, but a move this big invites everyone into the conversation. The baristas at my favorite coffee shop are excited to have something new to talk about with the espresso sippers. The UPS people have something in common with the FedEx people. And the Realtors are speculating where the big man will buy a house. (For the record, most Realtors agree he’ll buy a house on my street. I broke the news to my neighbor Bill, and we agreed to campaign for Shaq to be HOA president.)

I knew that Shaq Fever had taken over the city yesterday when I was at the library reading the New York Times. The trademark tranquility of the reading room was disrupted by a rowdy discussion about what Shaq will bring to the Suns. Listen, I like the Suns as much as anyone else, but you don’t yell about it in the library. I lowered the paper to see who was disturbing the peace. Who was it? Two librarians.

In the Arizona Republic this morning, Bob Young wrote that the Suns going into the All-Star break are “like kids on Christmas who have a present under the Christmas tree that they can’t open…a 7-foot-1, 321 present.” This is a loaded analogy because we all know what it’s like to get a Christmas present that’s not as cool as we thought it would be. Only time will tell. This was a trade to make help the Suns bring home an NBA Championship. I just hope I can be patient through February, March, and April.

It’s just good to have a shot of energy on the team and around town. Now, the real question is this: What are we going to call Shaq? Marion was the Matrix. Diaw is 3D. Barbosa is the Brazilian Blur. Stoudamire is STAT (or Hellboy if you ask Barkley.) And Steve Nash is, um, Steve Nash.

What will be the nickname for the new-and-improved Shaquille O’Neal? Someone mentioned Shaqtus (like cactus) but I thought that was too Sun City West. A friend of min came up with Bio-Diesel, which is slightly clever, but says nothing about the epic story of Shaq in Phoenix. I prefer Shaq2.0 but I don’t know if it will stick. Any ideas?

This was first published on my blog on Suns.com:

For those of you who missed the game last night, you missed a lot:

1. Leandro is getting traded. The fan favorite Leandro Barbosa was called in his Los Angeles hotel room yesterday afternoon and was told that Steve Kerr needed to speak to him in the lobby. Apparently, Leandro had been traded to the New York Knicks. A stunned and emotional LB went to his mentor Dan Dantoni’s room and asked, “Do you not like me? I thought you liked me?” Dan barked back at him, “You’re not getting traded!”
Lesson Learned: Famous people shouldn’t use their real names when they check in at a hotel.

2. Mike D’Antoni and Kobe Bryant are great friends. I knew that young Kobe grew up in Italy admiring the explosive play of the superstar Mike D’Antoni. It’s rumored that Kobe adopted D’Antoni’s #8 as his own for several years before he changed to #24 in 2006. Last night we saw Mike and Kobe laughing together on the sidelines. This his hardly evidence of a life-long friendship, but it’s news to most Phoenicians.

Lesson Learned: Sports commentators need to learn to use the word “frenemy.”

3. Boris Diaw can still shoot. If you’ve been a Suns fan over the past few years, you’ll remember that Boris Diaw can hit critical shots in big games. Last night against the Lakers, Boris sunk 9 of 13. It feels good to see confidence in Boris again.

Lesson Learned: Boris needs to get in touch with his inner tiger.

4. Lamar Odom wears girl’s tights. I don’t want to be the fashion police, but some things need to said. Dwayne Wade debuted his black leotard bottoms to the world a couple seasons ago when his Miami Heat stormed the NBA playoffs and brought Miami home its first championship trophy. His training staff justified Dwayne Wade’s pantie hose as “leg warmers” that kept his muscles limber. Since then, Kobe and Lebron have been seen rockin’ the tights. (At least Lebron has the common sense to grow a burly beard to keep his manliness.) This trend is growing and is causing great trepidation in my life. Last night I suffered through almost 3 hours of watching big and bad Lamar Odom wear purple tights under his gold shorts.

Lesson learned: That ain’t right.

5. Steve Nash is funny. Some of you missed this because you were already in bed for the night. TNT’s courtside clown Craig Sager asked Steve Nash after the game why the Suns seem to be struggling in the first part of the year. Nash listened patiently as Sager stretched a question out over 30 seconds before he finally blurted back: “It’s because we suck!” Steve continued with a straight forward appraisal of the team’s struggles, but it was clear that Steve was in a funny mood after the big game. Sager’s second question was why we haven’t seen more aggression out of Boris Diaw. Nash yelled into the microphone “It’s because he sucks too!” Sager ended the interview before Steve Nash could tell him that he sucks as well.

Lesson Learned: Craig Sager needs new clothes.

This was first published on my blog on Suns.com:

Today is my 29th birthday. If I was a player in the NBA, I supposed I’d be a “veteran” by now.

I know this because I was watching the Utah Jazz’s Matt Harpring shoot free throws when the commentator described him as an “NBA veteran.” This was (kind of) deeply disturbing to me because Matt and I went to Georgia Tech together in the late 1990s. Although we never met one another on campus, I like to think we would’ve been good friends because we had so much in common. We’re both named Matt, we went to Georgia Tech, great hair, and the ladies like us. You can understand why I was offended when the commentator implied that Matt and I were getting old. I turned off the TV and cranked up Tupac.

It’s bizarre when you realize that your heroes are younger than you. This month our own Amare Stoudemire and Leandro Barbosa both turned 25. Hypothetically, if I was a bully and I was raised in Brazil, I could’ve beaten Leandro in a game of 1-on-1 and perhaps in a brawl over a hard foul. I mean really, what could a 3rd grade Leandrino have done against me the mighty 7th grade stud?

I can’t make the same claim against Stoudemire because he’s been beating up 7th graders since he was five–the same year he got his first tattoo.

Since I’m on the subject…Amare has to be the most intimidating dude in the NBA. Yeah Big Ben Wallace is, well, big. But you can’t take him too seriously with that ‘fro. Anyway you look at it, Amare is intimidating. Even when he was injured and sitting the bench in his suit, he blocked two shots a game just by staring down the jump shooters. He’s “hell boy” even when he’s standing still.

As I type this, there is a four-inch tall bobble head of Amare on my desk. I stole from a co-worker last season. When I get angry at my computer, I slam my fist on the desk and my little Amare nods his head to agree with me. That’s the only time mini-Amare seems cool with me. The rest of the time he just cocks his head to the right with a stare of disappointment and disbelief. Even with a stubby body and a massive head, Amare intimidates me–a grown man.

I shouldn’t be too self-conscious about turning 29 because there are a lot of guys playing in the NBA who are older than me. Although I don’t like the Clipper’s Sam Cassell, mostly because he made those awful faces in the 2006 playoffs, he’s living proof that old guys rule. The man is 38-years-old. He was born in 1969, the same year as Woodstock, the same year that “…the age of Aquarius…” was the number one song.

But Sam’s a baby compared to Houston’s Dikembe Mutombo, born 1966. Do the math. 2007 - 1966 = 41 years of awesome. I’d love to play Mutombo 1-on-1 just so I could get dunked on by a guy who’s only 14 years away from getting senior citizen discounts at most restaurants.

I shouldn’t be discouraged by my age. Good things happen with time. Look at Steve Nash. Although he’s always been a good player, his league domination didn’t start until he got out of his 20s. He got his first MVP award not long after he turned 31, then he did it again at age 32. He’s 33 now, and he’s still playing at MVP caliber. Everyone knows he’s going to play into his 40s. This is good news for all of us.

I feel so much better now. I’m only 29. I have all year to prepare for the world-domination that begins at age 30. It’s fair to say that 2009 is going to be a good year for me. By then I’ll have earned back-to-back MVB. Most Valuable Blogger.

Sunday night I gave the baccalaureate speech for Mountain View High School in NE Mesa. It was an honor to give the keynote in front of the proud graduates in the caps and gowns. Half-way through my talk, I explained the importance of using your life to lift others up. That we aren’t made to take everything in this world for ourselves we were made for more. I explained that this world needs more players like Steve Nash. Someone who makes everyone else around them better. Every head started to nod in the church walls.

:::

The Suns got knocked out of the NBA playoffs. It’s been melancholy around town, and I haven’t been in the mood to write about it. Candyce and I were downtown at Stoudemire’s restaurant to watch Game 5 at home against the Spurs. We were without Diaw and Stoudemire because of an unjust rule in the NBA that killed us in the closing seconds of Game 4 in San Antonio. We won that game, but we were punished in the series.

Stoudemire’s restaurant was proud and rowdy. Even the kitchen crew came out into the restaurant to watch the final quarter of the game. The place was a happy riot until the final minutes of the game. The Suns came up a few points short in the final minute, and we lost the game. Slowly, the crowd emptied into the streets. Nobody spoke. Everyone just walked to their cars, stunned by the reality of our bad fortune.

On our walk to the packed streets past the stadium and to our car, I was encouraged by dozens of fans I didn’t know. “We’ll see you back Sunday night…we’ll get ‘em back here in Phoenix.” There were 25,000 friends walking those streets. How fantastic is that? Sports break down a cities walls so that absolute strangers are able to encourage one another and show compassion.

By the time Candyce and I got to our car, I was overwhelmed with by how much the team fought in that game. They were undermanned, but they fought with every fiber of their bodies. They left it all on the floor, and few people in this world really know what that’s like. Even though I was discouraged, sitting in my car beneath that humming street lamp, I had such a profound respect for the tigers that are the Phoenix Suns. Victory or not, they were tigers.

:::

Earlier this season (sometime after the All-star break?), ESPN ranked people throughout the NBA according to different statistics. Steve Nash was ranked number one in fist bumps: putting his fist out to his teammates as a sign of encouragement on the court. He gave the other people high-fives, encouraging words, whatever was he showed connection with the other players on the team. This is important because players have feelings too. Teams have spirit, a collective self-esteem between all the players and coaches. You need a team leader who can contribute to that spirit and to make that team better. You’ll never see Steve Nash angry at his teammates. He never shouts at his guys on the court, even if they miss an easy shot.

I’ll never forget a situation earlier this season when Raja Bell shot an air ball from behind the three point line. This is rare because this is where Bell hits most of his shots, but this season he’s been off. Steve Nash understands that he has to build up Raja Bell’s confidence, just like all of us understand one another need a boost of confidence. So after Raja Bell missed a three pointer, Steve Nash scrambled for the rebound and dished it back out to Bell, still standing at the three-point arch. Of course Bell drains the three, team runs back to the other side of the court and high-fives fly. How many people would offer someone redemption like that?

This season I got to see this up close. I had good seats, maybe 20 rows up from the court behind the scorer’s table. I watched two of the Indiana Pacers bench players walk up to the table and got ready to check into the game. They both slowed down caused stepped over something and then stood patiently at the sideline until they could go in. I wouldn’t have noticed this as anything eventful, but a few seconds later, Steve Nash stepped up to the table. He reached down and picked up a piece of paper and handed it to guys behind the table.  How awesome is that? Those guys thought they were too big too cool and too important to do something as silly as picking up a piece of paper. But apparently the leagues 2-time MVP isn’t too important.

There’s no doubt Nash will leave a legacy in the NBA. He’s still writing that legacy every time he bounces the ball on the court. So nobody knows for sure how his story will be told. But it is undeniable that he possesses a certain magic that take the game to the next level. Anyone with eyes to see knows that he leads a team unlike any team of this generation.

Next season, we’ll see this team do it again.

All of my roommates are moving out this week. My house always has the most drama on the block—the most cars out front, the rowdiest parties in the backyard. But over the past month, it’s gone over the top. For my wedding, there were dozens of cars in and out of my driveway every day. Now the guys are all moving out, so the driveway is loaded with four cars and a huge U-Haul.

Since there are 3 guys moving out, they’ve each recruited a distinct group of friends and family members to help them out. This mob of people has taken over my house, making laps up and down the stairs with stacks of brown boxes. I feel like I’m in the early scene of Home Alone when Kevin’s extended family has turned his house into chaos.

I need to get this out about Home Alone. There’s a scene early in the movie where the pizza deliver boy defends the $140 bill to Kevin’s dad by explaining that it’s 14 pizzas at $10 per pizza. I was 12 when I saw that scene, and I couldn’t imagine the big city life where pizzas actually cost that much money. Everytime I ordered pizza from then on, I’d think about that scene, wondering when that magical day will come where I paid double digits for a single pizza. In the 17 years since I first saw that movie, it hasn’t happened once.

This afternoon after the Suns beat the Lakers (now we’re up 3 games to 1), I started getting high on the thought of getting rid of clutter in the house that isn’t mine. One habit of my daily life is constantly getting rid of things that I no longer need. On any given week, I spend 2 hours getting things out of my house: donating, trashing, and recycling. Maher does this about once every 2-6 years. When I’m on one of my purging expeditions through the house, I always have to stack his stuff in the corner because I can’t get rid of it. It hit me that I could do a purging finale, the greatest of all purgings.

The project started simple, but quicky got out of hand. This house has about six versions of the same kitchen utensil. So if you have a golden brown grilled cheese sandwich that you need to flip, you can use any of the six spatulas. Since our household is so trendy, they’re each half black and half stainless steal. So I emptied dozens of utensils out of the drawer and sorted them out on the countertop, the same way you’d organize a deck of cards. I kept one of each, eight total. This was so outrageously satisfying that I kept going through the kitchen, one drawer and cabinet after another.

Three hours later, I had packed up three large boxes with pots, pans, cups, coffee mugs, and storage containers.

I emptied the junk drawers of all of Maher’s technostuff: iPod accessories, microphones, CDs, and dozens of AA batteries. I looked at the DVD cabinet like a cheetah looks at an impala. I organized and sealed up three boxes of sci-fi movies that I never have to see again. (Finally!) The only things that were mine were some episodes of the Real World Road Rules Challenge and a season of The Simpsons. I have so many empty drawers now. I knocked out half of the books on my shelves. Now there’s no books on music, only books about design and religion.

All in all, I got rid of at least 400 pounds of stuff today. Awesome.

I kind of feel like a Dad whose kids are moving out of the house. They’re all off to the next chapter in their life. I wave goodbye at the driveway then step back in the house, lock the door, and keep watching the NBA playoffs. My life is comfortable because I’ve worked hard to make it that way.